


Intrathoracic

by Odamaki



Series: The Sherlexicon [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Lestrade is very chill with this, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft would like to insist to the world that despite all the rumours and things you have heard, he has NO heart and certainly no reaction, or any other such paltry symptoms of attraction (like breathing, sweating or text done in rhyming composition). Lestrade thinks he's lying and would of his own volition like to know how to covenant a romantic liaison with the British government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intrathoracic

**73: Intrathoracic- within the thorax or chest**

Inside of his chest, under waistcoat or vest, one hundred thousand heartbeats a day.

Or more for some people (though Mycroft cannot be sure if he’s one) and for others considerably less. What he knows with some certainty, is that the body impertinently insists on having it’s own way. He’s adept at control over body and soul; he can school his face like a man. And if ever he baulks, it won’t show, nor his faults would be evident at all in such a way. Yet some things like sneezing, or hiccups or freezing, cannot be dismissed quite so flat. However-

Whatever the twitch, the cough or the itch, Mycroft is sure it’s not due to ‘ _that_ ’.

Having studied anatomy (in theory at least, for he’s disinclined to the knife), he’s aware that the bones, the muscle and hair can react in peculiar ways. Likewise we know thanks to Keats, Pushkin and Poe that the body is remarkably funny. When viewing another, a foe or a lover, it takes on a mind of it’s own.

The stomach is usually first to betray, sloshing and twisting itself into knots, which are not fatal but what make one feel sick and quite hot- or flushed, or else pale- generally unbecoming to the composed adult male. If the organ is behaving quite well then instead the whole belly may become unruly and shake, or push at the buttons of shirtfront and trews, making one feel bulbous and about to explode.

Or at least uncommonly fat.

A rigorous drench of hot water with lemon can help the afflicted, and seven minutes of brisk exercise daily at least can assist with keeping a rein on the beast. Mycroft employs treadmills, tonic and dairy-free marge; a low-cholesterol diet to stop feeling large and lastly cold showers which are meant to do... something or other.

His stomach remains a continual bother.

‘It is not _that_ , it cannot be _that_ ,’ Mycroft thinks. ‘To think so would be virtually deranged.’

And his stomach may churn upon sight of the man but his heartbeat beats on quite unchanged.

The lungs are the next to fuss him whenever he’s obliged to have put at Her Majesty’s Pleasure some never-do-well or crook, which inevitably bring Lestrade through his office. Nine times out of ten they work well and then, without warning or any such courtesy, they seize up and stutter, the diaphragm flutters and it leaves him choking. Or swells- the bloody things swell, in sensation (he presumes not in fact) and his breathing gets tight and his eyes spark with light from the lack of oxygen.

It alters his voice, leaves him breathless without choice in the matter or any recourse to correct it. Clearing his throat helps but it won’t mend the original reason he’s affected.

‘Infatuation,’ thinks M, ‘Is appalling. There’s nothing more puerile, messy or boring.’

And he’s thankful it never happens to him, that he’s not the slave of such a ridiculous whim of his mere biology. Hormones and physiology, can remain a footnote on his life.

‘It cannot be _that_ , it shall not be _that_.’ His lungs might fail to thrive.

But he can still look that man in the eye while his heartbeat goes on sweetly blithe.

The oesophagus and trachea, servants of the lungs, play tricks on him in inopportune moments. Like when he’s about to say something essential, all at once they contrive to resemble a hive of bees lodged inside of his neck. Sometimes it feels like he’s swallowed a brick, or like an over-ambitious constrictor he’s tried to devour more than his share, and ended up in a rictus. His throat feels like two rods of iron knotted and wrecked, and his Adam’s apple jogs like a yo-yo. It’s unfair, he believes, when he’s usually fine. This doesn’t happen with international imbroglio.

In cases like those he’s calm and reposed, unflustered, unmoved and untroubled. Yet the minute that man steps through the door, his difficulties seem to be doubled.

He should tell the man to keep a distance for he won’t get entangled like Sherlock and John.

‘It shall not be _that_. It will not be _that_!’

And his pulse beats dependably on.

The bladder and kidneys, a terrible pair, are about the worst of the bunch. He can never predict if they’re going to restrict and he’ll regret all his earlier coffee. He finds himself shifting from one leg to the other with an ache in the pit of his belly, with a sweat on his palms and a growing alarm that his composure is turning to jelly.

He will not admit that there’s something else in that pit that may be the cause of the problem. That’s not to be mentioned due to a sense of convention, which is old-fashioned but broken only with caution. Talk of those things (which exist, he’ll agree) is fine for academic discourse or study, but for the senses of some congressing the ‘peach’ with the ‘plums’ remains unbearably grubby.

Regardless he feels in the core of his being, something he cannot express and all he’ll permit to be said of it’s that his bladder must be under duress.

‘Get a hold of yourself,’ Mycroft thinks to himself, ‘there’s nothing at all to find heady.’

Because it cannot be that, because he cannot feel that.

And besides, his heartbeat is steady.

If _he_ sees that he’s stood ill at ease and his breathing is short or he’s swaying; if _he_ notes that his hands are damp and limp in his pockets, or his neck has turned red, or _he_ ’s conscious at all of any of the poor symptoms that Mycroft’s displaying….

…then _he_ hasn’t said a word of it.

Lestrade is nonplussed, charming, robust, and polite in the face of such fretting. Respectful, he refrains from making personal gains by pointing out all of the messes made, even though he’s the knave that causes it all in the first place.

Mycroft feels galled, he repeats he’s appalled by the concept of L-O-V-E. If ever there were a more reproachable spur, or motive he’s yet to explore it. Yet L-O-V-E is tenacious, it seems, as is the other thing that cannot be broached. It would be easier surely, if Lestrade acted less purely and gave a straightforward reproach.

Or unless it’s his own duty to rebuff even though he’s the one who is sweating, and whosever’s it is, well, _this_ , is becoming yet further upsetting. For sooner or later Mycroft knows it will come, and suspects he will never be ready. He’s frightened of feeling the things that he feels and the day his pulse beats unsteady.

So, he opens his mouth to explain it’s no-go, and while his intentions are good, for the sake of them both (in tones apologetic and loth), they should refrain from arousing the blood. To whit, this must end, and their business conclude and their paths must not cross any more, if Lestrade would be kind (and of course, he won’t mind) he really must show him the door. Lestrade listens and weighs an opinion, appraises the situation and then silently stands. He’s not angry nor sad, for which Mycroft’s glad, and he seems to comprehend the demand.

And then he turns. And he looks at him.

And he lays out his thoughts in one sentence.

“You’re a prat.”

So he says, and it happens, the skip, the dreaded miss of a beat. And it’s anger or shame, not that anyway, and Mycroft has only to blame…

Himself.

“Perhapth.” O Fatal Lisp! the heartbeat that trips and the body that will not behave. If there were a hole into which he could crawl, he’d go there, were it the grave.

“You are,” Lestrade says, half fond, because he is, and he can’t help but find it amusing. “You could have nothing at all, or me and much more; which is it you’d rather be choosing?”

Inside of his chest, under waistcoat or vest, one hundred thousand heartbeats a day.

Or more for some people, whose heart rates run fast, and for others considerably less. What he knows with some certainty, is that the body impertinently insists on having it’s own way, and that kissing can both stop and speed up the heart, and that is surprisingly…

Okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, sometimes I just think about gay fictional characters and poetry badly. Is this even poetry or just muddle text with a lot of rhymes. Could we rap this? 
> 
> Answers on a postcard, please.*
> 
>  
> 
> *then tear it up, eat it, and never mention the idea again.


End file.
